Season Out Of Reason
by Tattered Stylus
Summary: The old man who threw your life away. light Yoruichi/Soi Fon


He is the king of the low afternoon, the heated underside of ugly days. The way his crown reflects her face infuriates her; the death's head is sure of his victory and no longer hides it. He draws out the battle-axe (the force from the gesture makes a few drops fall from her face, further staining her already distraught clothing) and holds it level to her body. The golden chains of his cloak shake a little, then are silent. Distantly, she can hear explosions sound.

"Your youth abandoned you long ago, but old age has yet to reach you. What would you expect of such an age?"

She spits it out between intervals of pain. "Service. Always, my service."

"Service to who?"

There's no need to tell him that. It should be obvious, even if it's not the whole truth.

"You do not seem the type of woman who throws her life away for institutions. Your insistence that you are so is only self-deception. Come, before I end this, tell me."

She refuses and he sees it. He gives a sigh of annoyance, and brings the axe down upon her face.

"The first rule is the loss of beauty."

* * *

She sits alone in the garden, body wrapped in clothing that hides every part of her, save the eyes. She has long since grown used to the stillness, though she hates it fervently. It is motion she wants, the lissome gliding of leaves and wind all around her. Now there is only this patch of land, and an empty house.

Her relatives died disappointed. No marriage, no children, no purpose to her life. You waited too long, they had said, now look at you. Who wants to marry an old maid? There had been no reply, but the words had cut her deeply. True, she had never been a beauty, but at least she possessed no ugliness of form. Now that her hair is white and her face lined, she doesn't even have that. An ugly old woman who died alone.

_The blows come down like rain. Her chest has already been cleaved to the bone, where the sun shines brightly through her ribcage. He pauses after a strike, and grounds what's left of her foot into the pavement._

"_Shall I instruct you further? The second rule is the loss of strength."_

There is a voice she cannot let go of: "I've always liked the honey of your form."

* * *

There's no longer a morning where she wakes without pain. Her hands can barely hold the sheets without making her wince, her legs little better. She is always thirsty, and the weather is always too hot or too cold, and they never unlock the door. She yells at them to leave her be, she just wants out of this room.

They refuse to let her out. The doctors say it would be pointless, in the condition she's in? Bones that have broken, fevers that leave her trembling, and old battle wounds that wrack a body no longer young. Keep her here, they tell the aides, else she's liable to kill herself through delusions of youth.

_Only one eye works now, and she sees her legs scattered to and fro, so much spoiled meat. He's stopped again, though he shows no signs of exhaustion. The very air around him shimmers with heat, though it's cold as snow throughout her._

"_And lastly, stupid woman, is the loss of memories."_

It's pounding in her ears: "If you don't take care of yourself, it's the same as injuring me."

* * *

He's not an unattractive man, but there is nothing she finds desirable. The match had been arranged long ago, and though she had done well in her security duties, they had pulled her out, saying it was time she was wed. She lies fuming on the bed, longing for her weapons, when he comes in.

He is eager as all bridegrooms are, and rough upon entering. She's never been with anyone else, so she supposes it's all right, though only he seems to be enjoying himself. He does it once more before falling fast asleep, whereupon she turns to her side and cries hot tears of longing. What she wants no longer exists here.

_Barragan Luisenbarn turns his back to her. Carefully, the axe is sheathed, still dripping with gore. He gives a short bark of laughter._

"_Twelve seconds before it's gone."_

"Soi Fon."

* * *

The shadows the leaves cast are long and peaceful; the sun overhead moves slowly in its passing. Soi Fon lies still against the tree, heart aching, until she sees the soundless flash reach the branch above her, beckoning. She breathes a sigh of happiness, because there will be hours for play and hours for pleasure, days of contentment with the beloved, the person just for me. The cat-eyes watch her intently, clear in their message: you can stay with me now. Soi Fon leaps onto the dangling limb, and runs into waiting arms.

Summer's end had come at last.


End file.
